Equivalency
by Bizzy
Summary: No person could give forever. At some point, the favor had to be returned. [ Chapter 4 Up! ]
1. Prologue

Author's Notes: I don't know where this is coming from. I don't know where it's going. But somewhere in my mind, I feel like it won't be a short one. Enjoy?

* * *

_Equivalency_

He had learned, quite a long time ago, that to gain anything, something had to be lost. It was a simple fact, something he had acknowledged and even accepted long before he even began to delve deep into his study of alchemy. It was the first law of equivalent exchange. It was simple scientific fact; matter could not be created nor destroyed no matter how dutifully one tried to go about the process. He could manipulate the hydrogen and oxygen in the air to create flames, but he couldn't create the air he needed for such a reaction. Alchemy depended wholly on the understanding of such a concept.

His gaze shifted from the files atop his desk to her form, bent slightly over the work she was absorbed in, pen flitting across the page as she worked diligently. His mind wandered, obsidian eyes taking in the fair-haired woman. How was it that she had no respect for the law of equivalent exchange? A person would give, but only to get something in return. She had lost much of her personal life the moment she entered the military academy, and had thrown whatever outside life she held when she stalked into his office on her first day of work. And yet, she never seemed to gain much from what she lost.

How could one woman so easily defy such a simple law? Equivalency. No person could give forever. At some point, the favor had to be returned.


	2. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: I don't own FMA.

38.8 degrees Celsius is about 103 degrees Farenheit, just so you know.

* * *

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye was, by far, the most predictable member of his team. Quite frankly, the First Lieutenant was the most predictable person he had ever _met_. Second Lieutenant Havoc could always be counted upon to have a cigarette in his mouth, and Sergeant Major Fuery would always have a soft spot for a stray animal on a cold day. Warrant Officer Falman would always respond with only the most analytical of answers, and Second Lieutenant Breda would never feel that a dog was very good company. In fact, every person that Colonel Roy Mustang interacted with on a daily basis was predictable in their own ways.

But not the Lieutenant. No, Lieutenant Hawkeye took _predictable_ to another level. Her habits were so fully engrained in her mind that Mustang was certain he could anticipate her reactions in any number of given situations. Hawkeye took predictability to an entirely different plane of existence, where it went beyond loyalty and duty into something far more complex.

So, in his mind, it made perfect logistical sense to be concerned when her habits began to fall out of step. When she walked into the office appearing somewhat disheveled, he knew immediately that something was out of place. When her morning files were not turned in by eleven-hundred hours, it only added fuel to his already warranted concerns. And more often than not, she would absently shift her gaze from her work to the window as though there were something of much greater interest outside.

Though Hawkeye managed to get through the majority of the morning's work by their lunch break, she refused to leave the office. Instead, she remained tucked in whatever work she was doing, scribbling away at paperwork that Mustang was fairly certain she wasn't actually completing. He had tried to encourage her to leave her desk, if only for a little while, but she again refused. Without another word of protest, he left to eat his lunch—only to return less than ten minutes later.

"…Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

He would have sworn he was losing his mind, because upon his return to the office, he found her head leaning atop the heavy oak desk. In stark contrast to her usual demeanor, she seemed strangely peaceful, sleeping atop the paperwork she would ordinarily be hurrying to finish.

It seemed a sin to even consider waking her, considering how pleasantly calm she looked, but he knew that sleeping on the desk certainly wouldn't do. Mustang crossed the room quietly, careful to keep his boots from clicking as he walked in high hopes of not waking her. Even as he loomed over her desk, resting a hand atop her shoulder, she didn't stir; and he retracted his hand, startled. Even through the thick fabric of her uniform and sweater, he could feel the heat radiating from her form. She had a fever.

"Lieutenant Hawkeye," he murmured, stooping down just slightly to be closer to her, gingerly placing his hand back on her shoulder and shaking her just slightly. "Hawkeye, you need to go home." After a moment and another shake, however, she stirred, peering up blankly at Mustang.

"Sir?"

He sighed. Now that she was sitting herself up, he could properly analyze her temperature. Without responding to her unstated question, he pressed a hand to her forehead and once again pulled it away. Not only did she have a fever, but she was absolutely burning up. Whatever illness Hawkeye had caught from around headquarters was doing quite a number on her. "You need to go home."

She seemed only further puzzled by his statement, "I'm sorry, sir?"

Mustang shook his head, already off to the other side of the room, digging through his desk. "I'm sure we have a thermometer in here somewhere," he muttered to himself. Black hair appeared from his current position, and then two obsidian eyes were staring at her. "I said, you need to go home."

"I don't under—"

Without giving her the chance to respond, Mustang shoved the recently retrieved thermometer into her mouth. His smirk of achievement only grew when she started to respond, and he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You should know better, Lieutenant, you can't talk with the thermometer in your mouth. And I'm not listening to any of your protests, you are going home."

Hawkeye shook her head in disgust, but kept her mouth closed so as not to disrupt the thermometer. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she acknowledged that she wasn't feeling particularly well. After what felt like an eternity, Mustang removed the thermometer, and shook his head.

"No wonder you were so warm," he declared, handing her the small device. She struggled to focus her hazy eyes on it, and eventually managed to get the reading: thirty-eight point eight degrees Celsius. "Now you are definitely going home." Mustang gathered the thermometer up and put it away, meandering to the coat rack and getting both his and her coats. He slid his on to ward off the chill, before beckoning her over.

She trudged over quietly, wavering just slightly on her feet. With another click of his tongue in disapproval, Mustang took a hold of her forearm, steadying her. Amber eyes narrowed and she shot him quite a nasty glare, but didn't move to protest. Hawkeye buried herself in her coat, careful to make sure each button was done up properly before putting her hat and gloves on.

"Don't just stand there," he ordered, the grip on her forearm tightening as he guided her out the door. Dazedly, she waved a hand at him, a weary attempt to shoo his hand.

"I can walk myself, sir," she mumbled, though when he pulled just gently she followed without further protest.

The walk to his car was silent, though Hawkeye would stop once and again to regain her balance or steady her vision. The consistent stops only further fueled his concerns, which only had him tightening his grip on her forearm and guiding her with just a bit more care. By the time the five minute walk to the car was complete, she was shivering.

"Sir, you don't need to—"

"Shh," he chastised, nudging her into the car and then closing the door as he swung around to the other side. "You aren't walking home, you can't even walk straight. Stop arguing with me, Lieutenant. For all of the times you've taken care of me, let me once return the favor."

By the time he was seated and the car was on, she was resting her head against the cool glass window of the car, eyes drooping slightly as she tried to stay awake. For a moment, Mustang contemplated the situation, and then sighed quietly. He had spent quite a bit of time during his life traveling with his First Lieutenant, and though resting was a natural thing to do on a long ride, it was not a thing she often did.

"You can sleep," he said quietly as he started to drive towards his apartment. It seemed like a logical solution; he knew the layout better and wouldn't dare intrude on her apartment. He also would not dare leave her alone when she could hardly walk straight. With any luck, she'd be awake enough to stop at her apartment, where he could go and get her some pajamas and perhaps pick up her little dog, Black Hayate.

The sky was cloudy and dark, and the lights on the street began to blur into one. He could hear that she was asleep by the slow breaths she took in, and he cast a sidelong glance to confirm that she was sleeping. She seemed so peaceful as she rested, her breath leaving a small cloud on the cold glass as they drove down the dark road—

"Shit!"

Slamming a foot on the break of the car, he swerved out of the way of an oncoming vehicle. It was a large car, the size of a truck, and it was headed straight at him. "Shit, _shit_!" he cursed again as he noticed the rapidly approaching pole that they were about to make a fairly hard collision with. "Hawkeye wake up!"

The sentence hardly made it out of his mouth before the distinctive sound of crunching metal met his ears and the world went dark.

When light finally made its way back into his vision, he tried to blink away the throbbing ache that was in his head. Looking around, he acknowledged that he was in his car. He began to acknowledge that said car was quite damaged, and then realized that there had been some sort of accident—that he was involved in. As carefully as he could, he dislodged himself from the shrapnel and glass, stepping onto the street. He didn't see any other vehicles, for which he was glad considering the damages of crashing with another car.

Mustang couldn't place a finger on why there was such a disturbing feeling in the pit of his stomach as he looked around, as though he were forgetting quite a significant bit of information. As he tried to inspect what might have caused the accident, he froze, slowly turning back to his car. Which was currently empty.

"Hawkeye?!"


	3. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: I still don't own FMA. I also have no idea where this piece is going. I apologize for the cliffhangers, but it seems to be working out that way. I also apologize for shorter chapters; it's just how the piece is working out. Enjoy, I have part of the next chapter done. I'll try to get things out as quickly as possible, but I'm going away for the holidays on Wednseday until after New Years. I may have internet access but I don't know if I'll be writing much. Please read and review!

* * *

He was panicked. No, beyond panicked. The last he had checked his feverish Lieutenant was sick enough to be a candidate for hallucinations, and the last thing she needed was to be wandering about in the cold by herself. Mustang paused and checked the inside and underside of the car, hoping desperately to find some clue as to where she had gotten off to. She had seemed so disoriented that in the back of his mind he was dealing with a fear that she might not have _left_—that she was _taken_. 

Finally, the clues he was looking for. The passenger seat of the car was decently damaged, and hidden in the crevices of the seat was blood—quite a substantial amount. He leaned back out the door, trying to imagine a way that she would have crawled out to get away from the wreckage based upon how she had been sitting—if she even _could_ dislodge herself from the heavily damaged seat without further injuring herself. The blood was smudged, running across the edge of the seat, patterns that made it seem as though she had fought to stay _in_ the car. Two handprints were firmly on the window of the car, as if she had tried to use the window to stay in her seat, as well. He looked down. In the snow there were drops of blood. He paused to make sure that he was not the one who caused those drops of blood. He was not; therefore they had to belong to his Lieutenant. And thankfully, they left a trail in the dampening snow.

Every step was laborious. Mustang could feel his gut wrenching with every step he took, and his hands felt slick with blood from the cuts on his fingers from climbing out of the car. He trudged on, desperate to find her anyway. It didn't matter the circumstances, she was injured and ill, and not where he had last seen her. "Hawkeye?"

There was no response. It wasn't that he expected one so much as he was hoping to hear one, that she was only a short ways away, having meandered off in search for help before realizing that she was ill and couldn't be bothered.

He followed the trail of blood, the drops growing closer together as he moved down the nearly invisible path. Down the street, it led him, and towards a building, what looked like a long-since abandoned warehouse. He drove past this building day in and day out when he went to and from work, but it had never seemed to catch his eye until that precise moment, when he saw a light flickering in the window of one of the upper rooms.

Mustang walked towards the building, careful to be as quiet as possible. He opened the door, and walked in, wiping his palms on his pants to try and clear the blood before slipping on his gloves. Some sort of instinct kept telling him that his Lieutenant was in danger and that she definitely had not been carted off by a Good Samaritan.

"Damn it, Hawkeye…where are you?" It was a rhetorical question for which he still expected no answer, but that didn't stop him from wanting one. The splotches of blood were bigger once he stepped into the first room, leaving an even clearer pattern than the one in the snow. The red liquid trickled along the tiled floor, leading to the stairs and then proceeding up them. He held his breath when he could see light flickering in a room to his left from the top of the steps.

He had to be quiet. If she was conscious and alone, then he could try to catch her attention. But if she wasn't alone—conscious or not—he was risking more trouble by announcing his presence. Instead of opening his mouth, he bit his lip to keep himself from instinctively calling her, and listened.

It was quiet for a moment, and then he could hear coughing. It had a distinctly female ring to the sound, and the bearer of the voice sounded like they were struggling for air. He gripped his fingers tightly into his palm, the slight stinging keeping him from rushing off without planning his move. It was of utmost importance to think before acting; Hawkeye was in danger and though she was intelligent and perfectly capable of defending herself, nobody could defend themselves well with a fever of thirty-eight point eight degrees Celsius, not even the most skilled soldier.

He waited for some other sound, something unfamiliar, something that gave him reason to be wary. Nothing came. So after hesitating a moment longer, he peered into the room. The sight made him sick to his stomach, and all effects of decorum were lost when he saw Hawkeye.

A stream of colorful curses made its' way out of his mouth as he rushed to her side. She was holding tightly to her stomach with her right hand, and her left arm hung awkwardly at her side. There was a substantial gash on her head, seeping blood as only a head wound could. "Hawkeye?" He asked anxiously. She looked at him dazedly, amber eyes bloodshot and obviously confused.

"Riza," he said slowly, fingertips gently grazing the cut on her head. She hissed in pain and instinctively pulled away from him. His free hand went to press against the small of her back, holding her still. "I need to look at that cut, don't move."

She winced, closing her eyes tightly as he assessed the damage. Her stomach was bleeding, though he couldn't get a decent view because she kept her right hand clenched so tightly over the wound. Her head must've collided with the front of the car, causing the cut there. "Damn it," he cursed, one hand resting on the side of her face, still acutely aware of the fever she had.

She stared blankly at Mustang, finally removing her right hand from the gash on her stomach, "your…side, sir," she mumbled. "It…it's bleeding."

Mustang waved a hand at her, "you should be concerned about yourself." His voice was gentle, as calming as he could make it. He still couldn't shake the feeling that this accident wasn't quite as much of an accident as it was supposed to seem. He distinctly remembered a car driving directly towards them, the headlights beaming in his face. And staring at Hawkeye, who was obviously quite injured, so far away from the site of the 'accident' worsened his suspicions that it was far from an _accident_. "How did you get here?"

Hawkeye blinked, her right hand back to being pressed firmly on her side. She didn't respond.

"Hawkeye!" he snapped suddenly, desperate to keep her attention focused on him, to keep her awake. At the rate she was losing blood, he'd have to burn the wounds closed to keep her alive long enough to get her out of the building, a plan he wasn't particularly fond of. "I asked you a question! How did you get here?!"

For a moment, she stared at him, obviously still confused. She looked to the door, eyes widening when she saw that it was now closed. She glanced from the door to the obsidian eyes of her superior officer, panicked. Somehow, she knew that door was locked. "I...don't remember," she muttered, ashamed of her response. "The door—"

"We'll get out of here in just a minute, Riza. You can't move until I try to close those…your stomach is bleeding too much." He ignored the panicked look in her eyes, the way her uninjured arm was trembling. His eyes slid over the palms of his gloves. Once again, though the intent was good, he'd be using his alchemy to cause her _pain_.

She closed her eyes, nodding to the door. "B…but sir, the door—someone closed the door."

Mustang turned, his hands on her shoulders loosening just slightly. He stood slowly, careful to not upset the balance she had left, before moving to the door. Both hands tried the knob, quite a few times. He shook violently, suddenly realizing why she had seemed so distressed just a moment ago. "It's locked!"


	4. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Another cliffhanger-ish chapter, and another short chapter. I will try my best to get the next chapter up tonight, becuase I don't know what internet access I'll have when I'm away.

* * *

Mustang crossed his arms, struggling to come up with a solution to this dangerous situation. The door was locked, blocking the only exit from the room that he knew. Hawkeye was still on the floor, still feverish and most importantly, still bleeding. And who or whatever had just locked the door on them was likely nearby—waiting to attack.

"Lay down."

Hawkeye glanced towards him, brows furrowed.

"I said lay down. Your stomach…we can't run with you losing so much blood, and I'm not leaving you," he was already crossing the room, back to her side, crouching down beside her. "I have to burn the wound closed. It's the only option we've got."

Amber eyes widened. She was not unfamiliar to his flames; they had once danced across her back to mar the image of a perfect alchemical array. Flames to an open wound seemed to be an entirely different concept, and she started to shake her head, in both panic and fear.

"I have to. You'll bleed to death before we can get out of here," he said softly, his right hand twirling a strand of her hair soothingly. "I'm sorry." He paused, his hand slipping from her hair to her shoulder, gently pushing her backwards. "Lay down."

With the slightest pressure from him, she eased herself backwards, closing her eyes tightly in the process. Now would be the perfect moment, and before her back even met the tile floor, he snapped. It would catch her by surprise, he knew, but the surprise would at least ruin the pain of anticipation. The moment the heat prickled against the broken skin, her eyes snapped open, face contorted in pain as she tried to keep quiet. He raised his other hand and pressed it over her mouth, forehead knitted with worry. "Please don't scream," he muttered, almost begged. He didn't want her to scream; he wasn't even certain he could handle her screaming.

The skin was blackening around the source of the heat. There was a sickening scent in the air, one both soldiers knew well—burning flesh. He once again reminded himself—and her—that it was burning her side or dying in this room. Neither option was pleasant, but this one left her alive at the end.

He moved his hands away from her, trying to give her a moment to catch her breath. Though it would do nothing to ease the pain she pressed her right hand against the wound anyway, struggling to sit up. Mustang hesitated; wanting to tell her now wasn't the time to start trying to run—and then proceeded to decide against it. If she planned to try and sit up, then she would sit up with or without help. He gently braced her back and helped her move to be upright. Once sitting up, she pitched forward, her mobile right arm grabbing onto his shoulder, shaking.

"You're okay," he said quietly. It was all he could even begin to say to her as she clung to him. One arm wrapped around her, slipping under her arms. "We need to get out of here. If we make our own exit, so be it, but we're sitting ducks trapped in a locked room."

They both shuffled, jockeying for position as they tried to get to their feet. Her balance was wavering, and as much as he hated to do it, Mustang tugged her left arm around his shoulder for additional balance. She protested at first, the broken limb causing more pain once it was moved, but eventually silenced herself and held tight to his form for balance.

"Sitting ducks, indeed. You give an entirely new _meaning_ to the term sitting ducks." The voice was sinister, familiar, and yet just out of memories' reach—both were aware that they knew the owner of this voice, but couldn't place a finger on how. "There were a couple of options on how to deal with you, Colonel Mustang. Some wanted to kill you, others wanted to just silence you. We hadn't had a particular plan in mind. Though we didn't know your Lieutenant was in the car when you left headquarters this afternoon, seeing her when we approached you—the opportunity became too good to miss."

He wished he could grab the name from his mind, but it wouldn't come to him. "What do you want?"

The other man sighed, hands slipping into his pockets. "Not too much. Just checking up on the troublemaking Colonel, is really all. That, and teaching him a lesson he won't soon forget."

Mustang's grip around her side drastically tightened while he raised a gloved hand to snap, and she started reaching for a sidearm as inconspicuously as she could. The man laughed, clapping his hands together in mock amusement or perhaps excitement. "I knew you wouldn't play nicely. You're both just as predictable as ever."

Hawkeye was holding her gun at the ready with her right arm, eyes narrowed. Mustang shot her a nervous glance, more because of the fact that he wasn't certain of the purpose of her attempting to shoot when she could hardly form a coherent sentence.

"This just gets better and better," the voice laughed, bracing his hands on his hips. "Lieutenant Hawkeye in particular, she must have a fever, because she was so warm when I dragged her up here that I doubt she's even paying attention to what I'm saying. Can you even see me clearly enough to take a shot, Lieutenant?"

If every weakness of the two people standing in the room hadn't been previously revealed, they were by then. Their just-familiar-enough attacker had been at the scene of the car 'accident', knew what injuries both Mustang and Hawkeye had sustained in the 'accident', had obviously been responsible for getting Hawkeye up the stairs she certainly couldn't walk up—and was currently blocking the only known exit.

"Just run," she murmured voice barely audible. Mustang turned his head sharply, trying to catch what she had just said. "Leave me…get out of here."

It took a moment to make sense in his mind, but the attacker clarified it quickly enough. "How sweet; almost sickeningly so. She wants you to just leave her, Mustang, so you have a chance of getting out of here alive. It's really rather touching."

"We'll both get out of here alive." The words came out in a low hiss, dark eyes narrowing.

The other man laughed, a deep, hearty laugh as he shook his head. "You are impossible. I have no intention to kill either of you, so you don't need to worry about that." There was a quiet click, and Hawkeye started shaking her head. "I said I intended to teach you a lesson," another pause, and the stranger cocked the gun. "And that's just what I plan to do."

Both soldiers attempted to shove the other out of the way when they heard the gun being cocked. Two shots rang throughout the room, and Mustang instantly snapped the moment he heard gunfire, his aim their attacker. As Hawkeye had somehow gotten herself disentangled enough to step away from him, he wasn't certain who managed to fire shots. Over the roaring flames he heard a gun clatter to the ground.

The door opened, slammed shut, and then locked. Again.

Their attacker must've been the one who fired first.


	5. Chapter 4

Panicking was the first natural reaction that came to mind when he considered what to do. The room was filled with smoke, the haze making it nearly impossible to even attempt to figure out where his Lieutenant might have gotten to. Mustang was very aware of the fact that he was making a fairly dangerous assumption when he assumed that Hawkeye had not been taken out of the room.

"Hawkeye?" Damn the air in the room for being so stagnant; the smoke was taking a very long time to clear and he wasn't even sure where there would be a window to open to ease the smoky haze out. There was no answer to his call, and he only began to grow more concerned. "Hawkeye?! Are you in here?"

This time, there was a response. He could hear coughing once again, and it was all he needed to track her down—just a bit of sound to pinpoint her location to. As he carefully followed the sound the few meters towards her, the smoke was finally beginning to dissipate, a happening of which he couldn't be happier for.

"You're there," he said breathlessly, beyond relieved to find her despite the condition she was in. Mustang crouched down beside her, brows knitted with concern. "Damn it…he got your shoulder." The gravity of the situation seemed to grow heavier as time passed. They were certainly locked in there, because over the noise Mustang was sure he head the lock click.

"Told you…" she murmured, slowly moving her left arm to grip her right wrist, holding both limbs as still as she could. "To just _leave_…"

"You're impossible! I told you I'm not leaving you here already." Statement declared, Mustang carefully eased her weight off the ground, gingerly setting her form over his shoulder enough so he could carry her out of the building.

"Idiot…"

"Thank you and I'm a proud idiot at that. Be quiet, we're getting out of here."

There were two options, though once again neither seemed pleasant. That door was locked. He could try to open it via any number of ways—or he could make his own exit. Neither of these were particularly practical because Mustang's hope was to get out as quietly as possible.

It would have to be creating a new exit. He didn't want to blast the door for fear of attracting the attacker—but if there was some damage to the building it might attract other people, and at this moment he was so desperate for any assistance he could get that he was willing to take that risk.

Without a second thought, he raised his hand and snapped, the flames easily destroying the wall. Once the flames cleared, he stepped to the opening, looking down at the rubble that was on the ground below. There was an elderly gentleman, just down the block, who seemed to be nervously eying the pile of rock on the ground. He didn't have much of a choice at this point—desperation was kicking in because he could feel blood seeping into his jacket, and knew it was Hawkeye bleeding. Still.

Just one story off of the ground. It was too far to make a jump that wouldn't cause any further injuries, but close enough to not kill them. He tightened his grip around his Lieutenant, closed his eyes, and slid out of the room, hoping to a God he didn't believe in that the jump didn't kill either of them.

* * *

"Are either of them awake?"

"No sir, not yet. My guess will be that Colonel Mustang will be the first—but you're welcome to sit in here and wait. I'm sure a little company wouldn't do them any harm."

Second Lieutenant Havoc nodded slowly, blonde hair obscuring some of his vision. The officer seemed tired, sinking into the chair the doctor offered. "Thank you."

"And if you intend to stay in here, put _out_ that cigarette. It's going to kill you, that should be enough," the doctor snapped. Havoc quickly extinguished his cigarette, shaking his head.

"Mind telling me what the hell happened? The last thing I knew, Mustang had left a little note on his desk saying Hawkeye had a fever and he was taking her home. Next thing I know, we're getting a call in the office asking for us to report to the hospital immediately." Havoc let out a heavy sigh, glancing at Fuery, the only other to accompany him on the trek to the hospital. The younger officer was standing awkwardly to the side, staring rather nervously at the doctor.

"I was hoping you would tell me," the doctor replied quietly. "All I know is that Colonel Mustang's car was found—crashed—about two and half blocks or so from where both he and Lieutenant Hawkeye were found. The apparent injuries were numerous; some could be logistically linked to the vehicle accident or the fall, but some not so much—Lieutenant Hawkeye had a bullet in her right shoulder And quite frankly, the chance of a misfire with the given characteristics of the wound would be slim to none." The doctor shook his head, turning to look at the young Colonel and his Lieutenant, both lying in stiff hospital beds.

"I wonder what enemies they may have created along the way."

Fuery and Havoc shot an anxious glance at each other, before Fuery cleared his throat just loudly enough to attract the doctor's attention once again. "Will they be all right?"

The doctor swallowed nervously, folding his hands in front of him. "The superficial and musculoskeletal injuries will heal; I have no doubt about that."

"The way you said it…are you implying that there are things that won't heal, sir?" Fuery's voice came out quietly, nervously.

After a pause, the doctor nodded somberly, the knuckles of his fingers turning a crisp white against his darker skin. "Her shoulder," he murmured. "Whoever took that shot took a good one. I didn't bother poking around but it appeared that the majority of the major nerve connections have been severed. Her fingers, palm, arm—they were all unresponsive to any sort of stimulus."

The elderly man was drumming his fingertips anxiously on his leg, once again shaking his head. "Once again, it won't do them any harm to remain in here. In fact, the company might do them some good."

* * *

Every fiber of her body throbbed. Muscles she hardly knew existed were aching with pain that rivaled the constant chaos of Ishbal. Her head felt like it was spinning, her stomach in knots. Something was wound tightly around her forehead, and she moved to raise her left hand to touch it, feeling a heavy layer of gauze. Slowly, Hawkeye moved to sit up, only to freeze in pain. She was in the hospital, a fact she only registered when she noticed the crisp sheets and hospital gown. The most disturbing realization, in her mind, was that she didn't know how she had gotten there.

"Lieutenant," a raspy voice breathed from just a few meters away, "you're awake."

"Hm…?" Slowly, she turned her head, vision cloudy. "Sir! What happened?"

Mustang eyed her wearily, concern drawing into his features. "What do you mean by 'what happened?'—you were there, Hawkeye. Can you not remember?"

She turned, not daring to meet his obsidian eyes. "No, sir. I have a vague idea but…"

"That's all right." His response came quickly, cutting her off, but was gentle. She turned her head slightly, still avoiding his dark, steady gaze. "How do you feel?"

Immediately, she shook her head, the action sending her mind reeling. Her left hand went out to steady herself, and she moved to brace herself with her right hand—an action which brought no response. Her eyes widened in response to the lack of motion, and unsuccessfully attempted to at the very least move her fingertips. Despite all her efforts, there was no response. She could feel a pit forming in the depths of her stomach. "Sir, I…" She paused, trying to straighten out her thoughts. "Just tired. I'm just…very tired."

She could feel that his gaze was critical, as though he didn't believe her.

"You don't look as though you're feeling well," he said tentatively. She could tell just by the way those eyes pierced her, the way he attempted to act nonchalant though his eyes would forever deceive him. He knew, he knew that something wasn't quite right.

"With all due respect, sir, I can't remember much of the last…the last _however_ long it's been," she stumbled over the words, achingly aware of the fact that she had trouble piecing together coherent responses while trying to remain calm.

"Could I ask you a favor?"

A chill coursed through her, and she shuddered. "Of course." The words just flew from her lips, without a second thought. And she knew that something was coming, she knew without a doubt in her mind that it would likely entail a task she couldn't complete.

The door swung open, starting both occupants of the room. The Fuhrer's personal assistant, Storch, was standing in the doorway, hands stuffed in his pockets as he scoured the room with his dark eyes.

"It's a pleasure to see you awake."

Both pairs of eyes turned to look at the figure standing in the doorway. A distinguishable face, a familiar voice—and the blood ran cold in both patients.

"I came to see how you were feeling," the man smirked, his grim eyes lightening just slightly. "I've got something for you, Lieutenant. I believe it's yours." He crossed the room, yanking out her right arm with the least amount of care, his fingers spreading her palm. His other hand reached into his pocket, and dropped a loaded pistol into her palm, releasing her arm. The moment his grip loosened, despite her attempts, her fingers wouldn't close, and the weapon clattered to the floor.

He grinned with the look of a devil sparkling in his eyes. "Good. I see that you are well on your way to _learning your lesson._"

* * *

Author's Notes: This is more of an intermediate chapter, not filler but sort of developmental. Not the best, but I hope you enjoyed. Please review if you read, it makes me happy! Also, I write faster if you review. Really. 


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